Claudette’s on duty.
“Jesus God,” she says, “what did they do to this poor soul?”
They put Nasty on a gurney, start to roll him in.
“You have blood all over you,” Claudette says to Malone.
She holds Nasty’s hand as they roll him in.
Malone walks down to the men’s room, wets a paper towel and does his best to get the blood and the shit off his clothes.
Then he goes and sits in the waiting room.
It’s crowded, busy from the riot casualties. Cuts from the broken glass of storefront windows, bruises from fights, burns from setting fires or getting caught in them. Swollen red eyes from tear gas, contusions from the beanbags fired from police shotguns—the more serious gunshot wounds are already in ER or on the wards in the recovery rooms, or in the morgue waiting for transfer to the funeral homes.
“He’s gone, baby,” Claudette says.
“I figured.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudette says. “Was he your friend?”
“He was my snitch,” Malone says reflexively. Then he reconsiders. “Yeah, he was my friend.”
A violation of one of the first unwritten laws of police work: Never make friends with a snitch.
But what else would you call a guy you shared the streets, the parks, the alleys with? Who you worked with, really, because he helped you make busts, take the really bad guys off the street, protect the neighborhood?
Never make friends with a snitch or a junkie, so a junkie snitch . . .
But yeah, Nasty was my friend and he always thought I was his. And look where that got him.
Claudette asks, “Did he have family?”
“Not that I know of.” Not that I ever bothered to find out, Malone thinks. But yeah, there’s probably a mother and father somewhere. Maybe even a wife, who knows, maybe even a kid or kids. Maybe someone is looking for him, or maybe they gave up on him, wrote him off . . .
“So the body . . .”
“Call Unity,” Malone says, naming the nearest funeral home. “I’ll pay for the burial.”
“You’re a good friend,” she says.
“I’m such a good friend,” he says, “I never even bothered to find out his real name.”
“Benjamin,” Claudette says. “Benjamin Coombs.”
She looks exhausted—the casualties from the riots have kept her on almost continual duty, with a few minutes for naps.
“You have a minute?” Malone asks. “Go outside and talk?”
She looks around and then says, “A minute. You know, it’s slammed. The riots . . .”
They go out onto 136th.
“I thought you were going to jail,” Claudette says.
“I thought I was too,” Malone says. “I made a deal.”
Maybe even dirtier than the last one.
“You told me one time,” Malone says, “something about the weight of being black. You still feel that?”
“Well, I’m still black, Denny,” she says.
“Does it still wear you down?”
“I’m not using,” she says, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, I just mean . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno.”
She looks down and shuffles her shoe along the concrete of the sidewalk, then looks back up at him. “I need to get back in.”
“Okay.”
“You did a good thing, bringing him in. I couldn’t love you more.” She wraps her arms around him. Her cheek is wet against his neck. “Good-bye, baby.”
Good-bye, Claudette.
Hot summer night, the air-conditioning don’t work, so the residents of St. Nick’s are outside in the courtyards. There’s no such thing as a white cop sneaking in, so he doesn’t even try to be subtle.
Just marches in like he still owns the place.
Like he’s still Denny Malone.
The whistles, hoots, shouts and insults start, so by the time he hits Building Seven all of St. Nick’s knows he’s coming and ain’t no one thinking about no Christmas turkey giveaways.
They’re just thinking about how much they hate cops.
A crew of Get Money Boys stands outside the door of Building Seven.
That don’t surprise Malone.
It does surprise him that Tre is with them.
The rap mogul walks up to Malone.
“Slummin’, Tre?” Malone asks.
“Just helping to protect my people.”
“Me too.”
“They think a brother kills a cop,” Tre says, “they turn the world upside down. Not the same when a cop kills a brother.”
“You want to protect your people,” Malone says, “tell these guys to get out of my way.”
“You have a warrant?”
“It’s public housing,” Malone says. “I don’t need a warrant. Man with a law degree like you, I thought you’d know that.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Tre says. “Montague was cool.”
“He still is,” Malone says.
“This is not what I’ve heard,” says Tre. “I’ve heard he’s going to need a helper monkey.”
“You volunteering?” Malone asks.
The GMBs think it’s enough to go, move toward Malone with the intent to fuck him up good. They already know, the whole street knows, that no backup is coming in for him.
Tre gestures for them to be cool, then turns back to Malone. “What do you want here?”
“I need to talk with Fat Teddy.”
Tre says, “You know Fat Teddy will let you beat him to death before he gives anything up. He has a mama, a sister and three cousins in St. Nick’s and Grant’s.”
“We’ll protect them.”
“You can’t even protect yourselves,” Tre says.
“You’re obstructing a police investigation, Tre,” Malone says. “Get out of my way or go out in cuffs.”
“See, I think what I’m obstructing is some private business between you and Carter,” Tre says. “But if you want to play the obstruction card, put me in bracelets and let a fresh round of riots ensue.”
He turns around and offers his hands.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Malone says. “Deposit some needed street cred into your account.”
“Do what you’re going to do,” Tre says. “I don’t have all night.”
Then Fat Teddy walks out the front door with his hands up. “My lawyer’s on his way. What you want with me?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“I heard you weren’t police no more.”
“You heard wrong,” Malone says. “Put your hands behind your back before I bust your fat head open.”
“You don’t have to do that, Teddy,” Tre says.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll shut it,” Malone says. “Don’t test me.”
“Don’t you test me,” Tre says. “You see anything but brothers around here? You call for backup, Malone, what I hear is no one’s going to come. You’d be the one dead cop they don’t care about.”
“But you won’t live to see it,” Malone says. Has to be twenty people holding their cell phones up on this. Looks like a rock concert, Malone thinks. He turns back to Teddy. “Hands behind your back. If I pull my gun, I will shoot you, then Tre here. What you all need to know is, I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”
Teddy must believe him, because he puts his hands behind his back. Malone walks him away from the door a few steps, pushes him against the wall and cuffs him. “You’re under arrest for homicide.”
“Who I kill?” Teddy asks.
“Nasty Ass.”
Teddy lowers his voice. “I ain’t kill him.”
“No?” Malone asks. “Who did?”